


The Full Boyfriend Experience

by BoldAsBrass



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Abduction, Consent Issues, First Time, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldAsBrass/pseuds/BoldAsBrass
Summary: The most unnerving thing about this entire situation, Alex thought, as he flopped gloomily onto the duvet, was just how middle-of-the-road Yassen’s tastes were outside of his choice of career. Not for him the marble and gold, hookers and blow lifestyle of your average career criminal. All Yassen Gregorovich wanted to do after hard week assassinating, was to order a takeaway, open a nice bottle of wine and spend some quality time with his favourite person in the whole wide world.Which, unfortunately for Alex, happened to be him.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 54
Kudos: 99





	1. The warehouse

“Cub, we’ve got a problem.”

Not a phrase Alex ever wanted to hear. Particularly not when he was hiding in a draughty Minsk warehouse, counting down the hours until K-Unit could bring him in. He pressed his earpiece further into his ear and peered through the narrow gap which he had cleaned in the grimy window. The street below was empty except for a grey Dacia Logan parked haphazardly up against the kerb and a derelict asleep in narrow doorway. Or at least, Alex hoped he was asleep. He hadn’t moved in the last half hour.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Kozlov’s brought in re-enforcements.” The delivery was characteristically laconic but Alex could hear an underlying note of tension in Wolf’s voice. “That last stunt of yours must’ve really pissed him off.”

“No needs a wine cellar that big,” Alex said. He squinted out of the window. The derelict was wearing a cloth cap pulled down around ears against the bitter February cold. The bottom of his face was all but hidden by a beard. It was impossible to tell if he was awake and watching the warehouse entrance, comatose on cheap alcohol, or dead. The warehouse was dim and full of shadows, the only illumination the muted light filtering through the dirty windows. Darkness was a double-edged sword. It would hide him from any pursuers, but it would also conceal any hidden watcher from his sight. He flattened his body tighter against the concrete pillar flanking the window and did his best to make himself inconspicuous.

“It will be less about the wine cellar and more about the house above it, I expect,” Mrs Jones cut in.

Easy for her to critique. She was safe and warm in an office in London, not holed up in Belarus. “You told me to cause a diversion,” he pointed out. “You didn’t say what.”

“It’s done now,” Wolf said heavily.

A burst of distortion interrupted what he was about to say next. Alex heard the slam of a van door, the sound of boots on metal. K-Unit were on the move. “What’s going on?”

“There’s something else.” Tulip Jones again. “I’m sending through some footage.”

The phone in his back pocket buzzed almost instantaneously. The footage was grainy and there were several drop-outs in the stream, but Alex recognised the long U-shaped driveway leading up to the front of Kozlov’s house and the two large lawns on each side. The video had been shot from a high vantage point, probably the scaffolding of the new apartment building being built on the next street. The smoke still curling lazily from the east wing of Kozlov’s house told him it was at most a few hours old. As he watched a covered truck, incongruous in that part of town, drove up the driveway and pulled to a halt in front of the main door. Four men jumped from the back and another two got out of the cab. They were dressed in black and had the broad shoulders and short haircuts of hired muscle everywhere. Alex frowned, not understanding the problem. They looked like a professional outfit but so were K-Unit. Then a seventh man appeared from the back of the truck, ducking beneath the canvas awning to stand watching the drifting smoke. He had his back to the camera. All Alex could tell was that he was fair-haired and more slightly built than his companions. Kozlov appeared at the door and the man jumped lightly from the truck and went to meet him. They shook hands and Kozlov ushered the group inside. Just as he stepped over the threshold, the blond man turned to look over his shoulder, looking directly towards the camera as if he had sensed its presence. The shot froze and zoomed in until his face filled the screen. The technicians had done their best to enhance the image, but the details were still indistinct. Alex could make out short hair and a smooth oval face, pale smudges marking the eyes.

“Is that who I think it is?” Mrs Jones asked.

“Yeah,” Alex said at once. “It’s him.” He hadn't needed to see the image. He’d known the moment he’d seen the man jump from the back of the truck. A cold shiver ran down his neck, like a trickle of icy water. Yassen Gregorovich. _Shit_. “What’s he doing here? He hasn’t been active for years.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,” Mrs Jones said. “There’s nothing on any of the usual channels. No sign he was about to reactivate. No records of any previous dealings with Kozlov. Our last confirmed sighting was in Brazil.”

The unspoken message was clear: this was personal. This was about Alex. He licked suddenly dry lips and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “When was this taken?”

“Ninety minutes ago,” Wolf said, suddenly as clear as if he were standing beside him.

Barely half an hour after Alex had stolen the moped and fled the house. Yassen must be based locally. “And where is he now?” he asked. The answering silence did nothing to steady his nerves. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“We lost him,” Eagle said. “We had eyes on the truck until half an hour ago. Then they swapped into separate vehicles and he was gone.”

The cold shiver returned. He could hear the pulse in his ears. “Was he driving a grey Dacia Logan?”

A pause while Eagle confirmed details. “Black Audi A4.”

Alex peered out into the street, doing his best to ignore the panic bubbling through his veins. The Dacia was still in the same place. So was the derelict. Ninety minutes was not much time to find him in a city of two million people. But Yassen was Yassen. And a city was not nearly enough distance between them, particularly not if Yassen knew Minsk well. “What happens now?”

“Change of plan.” Tulip Jones.

“We’re bringing you in early,” Wolf confirmed. “We’re on our way now. ETA is-”

“Twelve minutes.” Snake’s voice.

Alex sagged against the pillar, experiencing a mixture of annoyance and relief. They’d held off making contact until K-Unit had received clearance to recover him. Fearing perhaps he would panic and bolt if they told him of Yassen’s reappearance without providing a concrete way out. The implication that he might lose his nerve was galling - he’d proved himself often enough - but he wasn’t about to campaign for the chance of spending a second night in Minsk just for the sake of his pride.

“Twelve minutes,” Wolf said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Ha-ha,” he said with a bravado he didn’t particularly feel. “Is that everything? No other old friends planning a visit?”

“That’s everything,” Mrs Jones said. “For now. Stay safe.”

“See you, Cub,” Wolf said and cut the call without further comment.

 _Stay safe_ , Alex mouthed, his breath misting the grimy window. Chance would be a fine thing. He took a deep breath, feeling some of his initial panic recede. Twelve minutes. Now probably closer to ten if Snake put her foot to the metal. Yassen might be good, but he wasn’t superhuman. The chances of him pinpointing Alex’s location in the next ten minutes were vanishingly small. Although with Yassen, you could never be certain. The shiver of unease returned, less akin to a cold trickle running down his neck this time, more similar to a cool finger stirring the small hairs at his nape. With a sudden sense of foreboding he looked up, not through the window but into it. A reflection stood behind him, pale as a ghost in the darkness. Alex had no idea how long it had been there. The reflection smiled and a soft voice spoke in his ear. “Hello, Alex,” it said.

Alex’s knees turned to water. Oh, _fuck._


	2. The living room pt 1

The main room of the apartment was tastefully but sparsely furnished. Other than a wall mounted television the only furniture was a sofa stretching the length of one wall, and a low coffee table sitting in front of it. The table held a tray of expensive-looking sushi, a bottle of wine and an empty glass. The flat was probably an AirBnB or a serviced apartment. Or at least, Alex hoped so. If not, then Yassen had either broken into someone’s flat - which didn’t bode well for the unfortunate homeowner - or he had taken Alex to his own abode, which didn’t bode well for Alex.

The evening had not turned out as he had expected, and Alex had been abducted often enough to have opinions on how these things usually played out. He had not been tied up, roughed up or threatened. Vivisection had not been mentioned at all. Instead, he was sitting on one end of the sofa wearing a pair of jersey shorts and a thin T-shirt and trying not to think about why Yassen might have had a pair of pyjamas lying about in precisely his size. None of the answers were at all reassuring. Fortunately, given his scant attire, Russians liked to keep a warm house. The afternoon had faded into a raw February night and outside a sleety wind was blowing, but the room was comfortably warm, the whine of the wind subdued to a distant murmur. The television was playing softly in the background, something glossy and low effort, and the lights had been dimmed to a cosy glow.

All of which would have been a distinct improvement upon spending a night in the warehouse, had Yassen not been sitting at the far end of the sofa eyeing him with a speculative expression. He had changed into a blue checked bathrobe, and was clearly in an excellent mood, relaxed, even mellow in his demeanour. Retirement suited him. He had barely aged a day in the intervening years. His hair was still blond, his eyes a clear blue, his features smooth and regular. He looked mild-mannered and docile. But Alex wasn’t fooled. He was still Yassen Gregorovich. Still ruthless. Still amoral. Still deadly.

“Try this one,” Yassen said at last, turning his attention to the coffee table and selecting a salmon nigiri from the tray. Even from the far end of the sofa, Alex could tell it was beautifully made: the salmon coral pink and placed delicately over a ball of rice, so gently shaped the granules barely held together.

He shook his head. “No thanks.”

Yassen fixed him with an unblinking blue stare. “You don’t like raw fish,” he diagnosed.

He sighed inwardly. “The raw fish is not the problem with this situation.” Usually he loved sushi but he couldn’t shake his growing sense of unease. This encounter was becoming increasingly less like an abduction with every passing minute.

“Suit yourself.” Yassen added a judicious dab of soy sauce and popped the nigiri into his mouth chewing with an air of thoughtful appreciation. “More wine?” he asked when he was finished.

“No.” The wine was another thing making Alex uneasy. He might have expected vodka for Yassen, at best water for himself, but Yassen had poured them both a glass of Chablis. He had drunk his in a nervous fumbling gulp and it was sitting cold and acidic in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t really like wine.”

This comment earned him a faint smile. “I have heard this, yes.”

Alex seized the opening before his nerve failed him. “So you’re working for Kozlov now?” he asked leaning back against the sofa arm in a casual pose that wasn’t casual at all.

Yassen poured himself another abstentious half glass and selected a smoked eel sushi roll, eating it in contemplative silence before deigning to reply. “Kozlov is not that interesting to me.”

That was one way of putting it, Alex supposed. When you’d worked for madmen like Herod Sayle and Damian Cray, a local villain like Kozlov probably would seem quite dull. Not nearly diverting enough to tempt Yassen out of retirement. “Am I interesting?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Yassen replied, with a speed that would have been flattering coming from almost anyone else. “You are very interesting.”

“Oh.” Alex wrapped his arms around his knees. So Yassen wasn’t working for Kozlov? That seemed ominous somehow.

The change of position did not go unremarked. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Because you’re all hunched up.”

“I’m fine.”

“All right.” Yassen stretched and rested one high arched foot on the coffee table. He cast Alex a speculative look over the rim of his wine glass and a pink, rather pointed tongue flicked over his lips, removing a trace of soy sauce. “You know,” he said at last, “my back is sore.”

“That’s probably from when you threw me over your shoulder and stuffed me into the Audi,” Alex pointed out helpfully.

Yassen ignored this sally in favour of rubbing his neck, flexing his arm in a way which made the front of his bathrobe gape perilously wider. Alex caught a flash of pectorals before averting his eyes. He wasn’t sure what Yassen was wearing beneath the robe. He was trying to ignore the growing conviction that Yassen wasn’t wearing anything underneath it at all.

“I need a back rub,” Yassen announced.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of masseurs in Minsk.” Alex glanced a little longingly towards the sushi and did his best to ignore the growling of his empty stomach. “It seems to have everything else.”

“Yes, but I would like a back rub from you.”

His heart sunk. Perhaps he should have been surprised, but in truth he wasn’t. In his heart of hearts he’d always known that Yassen’s _tendresse_ for him was not entirely platonic. “I’m not very good at back rubs,” he prevaricated.

“I’m sure you can learn.”

“Aren’t you worried I might hurt you?”

Yassen laughed for longer than seemed entirely necessary. “No. Come here,” he added when Alex made no attempt to move. “Sit behind me.”

Alex remained motionless at the far end of the sofa.

Yassen continued smiling but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Come here, _now_.”

The unspoken threat was clear. He sighed and squeezed into position, his legs straddling to each side of Yassen’s hips. Without prompting, Yassen shrugged down his bathrobe and Alex saw retirement had done little to soften him. His back was tight packed with muscle, set out like an anatomy textbook. He dredged up his human biology lessons and grimly set to work, pummelling at Yassen’s shoulders and wondering whether he had the nerve to attempt anything more drastic.

“You have strong hands,” Yassen said approvingly. Good mood restored he settled back against Alex’s chest, sipping from his glass as he watched the TV drama play out. An altercation was taking place on screen between two unfeasibly good-looking police officers. It had been dubbed into Russian and Alex couldn’t follow the details but it looked undemandingly trashy. “Did you have a nice day?” Yassen asked once they’d switched to a commercial break.

Alex shot a disbelieving look at the back of his head. It proved marginally less expressive than the front. “Oh, you know, got up, got press-ganged into serving my country, got kidnapped,” he said sarcastically. “Standard weekend, really. How about you?”

“They shouldn’t have left you alone in that warehouse,” Yassen said with mild disapproval. “You’re not a combatant. It’s not good practice.”

“ _Says the man who made me fight a bull,”_ Alex mouthed in silent indignation.

“You hold on to things for too long,” Yassen said, somehow managing to intuit his response without turning his head. “It’s not good to hold on to grudges. Life is too short.”

“A _live_ bull,” Alex insisted, abandoning both caution and shoulder massage in his annoyance.

“Not a very big one.”

“I was fourteen years old! It looked pretty big from where I was standing.”

Yassen’s voice took on a reflective note. “When I was fourteen, a man made me play Russian Roulette for my life. Why have you stopped?”

“First,” Alex said, furiously resuming his pummelling, “it’s not a competition about who had the worse adolescence. And second, Mr ‘it’s-not-good to-hold grudges,’ I know for a fact that five years later you hunted him down and shot him in the head.”

Yassen turned to examine his face and Alex caught a waft of his aftershave, something cool and understated and almost certainly not Lynx Africa. “You know about Sharkovsky?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Alex said, before remembering the details had been contained in a top-secret file which Wolf almost certainly shouldn’t have shown him.

Yassen, however, appeared unconcerned that the details of his past life were known to MI6. He studied Alex’s face for a few moments longer, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You’ve been reading up on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Alex muttered, avoiding his eyes. “You’re a hostile agent. I’m meant to read up on you.”

“If you say so,” Yassen said returning his attention to the television. “It’s good that you do your homework,” he added, patting Alex’s knee. “Very dedicated. Especially when you don’t like the job.”

Alex made a face at the back of his head, but managed to hold his tongue. Silence reigned for a few minutes as Yassen reclined against him warm and apparently content. On screen, they’d returned to the police drama and the tension was picking up. A group of armed officers burst into an unlit room, waving their weapons in a way which even Alex could tell was more likely to injure one of their own party than the intended target. Yassen gave a small ‘tch’ of annoyance. His hand hovered over the remote. “Do you want to watch something else? There’s a wildlife documentary on the other channel.”

“No, thanks,” he said at once. The last thing he wanted was a pride of rampant lions giving Yassen any ideas. Or worse, fields full of sticky buds and promiscuous, quivering stamen. His best hope seemed to be for Yassen to become so relaxed he fell asleep before they could move on to more intimate activities. Sipping lazily on his glass of wine, perhaps, while Alex knelt between his legs. The thought made him shift uncomfortably. The apartment was really quite warm.

“You know,” he began, then hesitated as Yassen turned his head, instantly alert. Maybe it would have been better to leave him to drowse.

“What?” Yassen said when he didn’t continue.

He paused, then rushed ahead. It had to be worth a try. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Yassen took a sip of wine. “It doesn’t?”

“No. I mean, you’re wealthy.” He looked around the living room, which was comfortable but hardly ostentatious. ”Presumably?”

“Yes,” said Yassen, matter of factly.

“Have your own house and car. You keep in shape.” The slipping bathrobe was making that abundantly clear. “You’re attractive.” In a pale, slightly reptilian way, admittedly, but if you liked them blond and clean-cut then Yassen was definitely your man. “You-” he wracked his brains, trying to think of the other positives. “You can fly a helicopter, skipper a yacht, speak a couple of languages.”

“Nine languages.”

“Nine, really?” Despite himself, Alex was impressed.

“Yes.”

“You had an exciting job.” He hesitated before his innate truthfulness compelled him to add, “Admittedly, you did kill people for a living, but some people like a bad boy.”

“Bad boy,” Yassen repeated neutrally.

“What I’m saying,” Alex said, abandoning the pummelling for a moment, “is that for the right person, you’re actually quite a good catch.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said warming to his theme. “A guy like you could definitely meet someone. You should put yourself out there. See what happens. And _then_ ,” he added, recollecting his main point, “you wouldn’t have to abduct people to give you back rubs.”

“I see.” Yassen considered this intelligence in silence, circling the wine in his glass. Without warning, he rolled his head back onto Alex’s shoulder and glanced at him sidelong. A long-lashed, lingering look which from anyone else would have bordered on coquettish. “You think I’m attractive?”

Alex sighed inwardly. “That was your take home message?”

Yassen’s gaze ran over his face, examining his profile with a near-forensic intensity. “I think you’re attractive,” he announced and patted his knee.

“Yeah,” Alex said heavily. Without wanting to sound big-headed, he’d guessed.

Yassen drained his glass and placed it on the coffee table, then settled more comfortably against him. One hand found Alex’s leg, and smoothed up and down his thigh before slipping beneath the crease of his knee. “Rub my back more.”

“My hands are tired,” he protested. He wasn’t just stalling. Yassen’s shoulders were warm but densely unyielding, massaging them had been like squeezing a rubber ball.

A hand slipped behind his other knee and tugged him closer. “Kiss it then.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

Reluctantly Alex pecked at his neck. The skin was smooth and slightly yielding. Yassen’s hair fuzzy against his nose.

Yassen sighed in approval. His attention turned to Alex’s legs. “You have nice legs,” he observed. “Athletic legs.”

“Thanks.”

“Strong legs,” Yassen said reflectively. He squeezed lightly at Alex’s quads. “You can use your teeth, if you like,” he added.

It was the type of casual suggestion which wasn't really a suggestion at all. Alex briefly considered taking him at his word and sinking his teeth into his neck, but that seemed unlikely to improve the general tenor of the evening. Instead, he bit lightly and felt Yassen’s fingers tighten on his thighs.

“Again.”

As he lowered his head he caught sight of the long scar which ran up the side of Yassen’s neck. The memory of what it represented distracted him and he bit down harder than he intended. The effect was immediate. Yassen stiffened then twisted with terrifying speed. An instant later, he was sitting in Alex’s lap, chest millimetres away from his startled nose. Alex grabbed reflexively, hoping to keep the bathrobe anchored and found he was gripping Yassen’s rear. He had a split second’s confused impression of supple springiness before he shifted his hands to safer territories.

Fortunately, Yassen appeared minded to be forgiving of a little accidental groping. “Hello,” he murmured, “Alex Rider.” His eyes fixed on Alex’s, alarming in their intensity.

“Hi,” Alex said tightly, bracing his arms and doing his best to keep them apart. Yassen was warm, and surprisingly heavy and the rapidly slipping bath robe was doing little to conceal that he _really_ liked having his neck bitten. Alex would admit to having had his fair share of fantasies about the _femme fatale_ who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer – surely everyone had had those? – but the present reality while faithful to the fantasy in some respects, was far more disturbingly… rampant.

Yassen’s attention turned to Alex’s hands gripping his hips. “You have nice arms,” he said and squeezed Alex’s biceps appraisingly, assessing the hardness of the muscle running tight beneath the skin. “Strong arms.”

“Right.”

Yassen’s hand slipped beneath his T-shirt sleeve, mapping out the contours of his deltoid. “And strong shoulders.”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t that Alex didn’t appreciate a compliment, but it was possible to have too much of a good thing. “Have you ever thought about playing harder to get?”

“No.”

“Okay. And do you think that maybe you should?”

Yassen’s hand lingered for a moment at his armpit then moved across his chest tracing the line of his collar bone. “Why would I do that?”

“Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen?” Alex suggested. “I mean, nobody likes a pushover.”

Yassen’s fingers came to rest at his Adam’s apple. He gave a half smile. “People like us, Alex, we have to seize every opportunity we are given. Life is too short to play games.”

“There are no people like us,” Alex said tightly. He didn’t like having his throat touched. “There are people like you. And there are people like me. And they are two different types of people.”

Yassen’s smile developed edges. “I forgot. Killing people only counts if you do it on purpose. And even then, if they are bad people, it may not count at all.”

The reply hit its intended mark. Alex winced inwardly. Retirement had not softened Yassen at all. “Can we change the subject?”

“Of course.” Yassen became instantly solicitous. “You don’t want to talk about work. You’ve had a hard day.”

“I’ve had a hard life,” he retorted.

“I know,” Yassen murmured. “Poor Alex.” He tucked a loose lock of Alex’s hair behind his ear. “It’s a shame.”

“ _Yes_ , poor Alex,” he grumbled, mollified despite himself. He wasn’t stupid, he knew when he was being sweet-talked, but it made a change for someone to act interested and sympathetic. Even if it was his erstwhile worst enemy.

“You seem so tense,” Yassen continued.

“Really?” he managed. “Can’t think why.”

Yassen’s eyelashes dipped and his gaze dropped to Alex’s mouth. He traced a thumbnail along his bottom lip. His nails were small, square, neatly filed. “Do you know what helps me when I feel tense?”

Alex’s mind flashed back to their first encounter and, not for the first time in his life, his mouth outpaced his brain. “Shooting people at point blank range?”

Yassen nodded, acknowledging a point well made. “Yes. But other things too. Why don’t I give you a neck rub?”

“Um.” On the one hand, Alex was not eager to get more up close and personal than they already were. On the other, having a near naked and distinctly amorous assassin sitting in his lap was not doing anything good for his peace of mind. “Just my neck?”

“Just your neck,” Yassen confirmed and shifted to sit behind him before he could think of a diplomatic way to refuse. The rapidness of the transition was unnerving. Yassen out of sight proved even less reassuring than Yassen in plain view.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Breathe.” Yassen spoke quietly, almost in his ear. Without warning two hands gripped his shoulders, then slid rapidly towards his neck. _He’s going to kill me!_ Alex thought with a flash of visceral, unreasoning terror. _He’s going to choke me to death!_

A pause, then Yassen’s thumbs began to rub in slow increments along the tight muscles at the base of his skull. “Relax,” he was instructed.

Easier said than done, given the substantial erection he was sporting. Alex took a shaky breath and dug his fingers into the sofa cushions. Oh, this was not good. This was really not great. His counsellor was going to have a field day with this one - if he ever told her about it which, if he were honest with himself, he never would. Inappropriate, thrill-seeking behaviour he would happily confess to, but springing a rock-solid hard-on the moment a professional assassin touched his neck would move him firmly from the category of ‘troubled youth’ to ‘actually perverse.’ And that wasn’t even getting into the whole dead uncle thing.


	3. The living room pt 2

Typically, Yassen turned out to be very good at backrubs. Far better than Alex. He kept his movements small, his thumbs circling in tiny, controlled motions to each side of Alex’s spine, working at the tight muscles until eventually Alex’s shoulders relaxed and lowered despite his reservations.

The change did not go unnoticed. “MI6 taught you the art of war,” Yassen murmured, brushing the hair back from Alex’s temples into to a stubby ponytail, “but they did not teach you the art of love.”

Alex stared sightlessly at the television screen and debated whether or not to speak. “There’s something you should know,” he said at last. “Something important.”

Yassen lifted the ponytail so he could work deeper into base of his skull, sending unexpected chills down Alex’s spine. “Tell me?”

He chewed on his lip, feigning indecision. “I don’t know if I should.”

Yassen’s voice became lower, intimate. “Tell me.”

Alex took a long breath. “No one, absolutely no one, calls it that.”

A flat pause. “I do.”

“Yeah?” he twisted to look over his shoulder. “And have you considered that this might be why you’re not getting laid?”

Yassen stared at him expressionlessly. “I get laid.”

Not defensive, at _all,_ Alex thought. Perhaps his scepticism showed on his face, because in the next instant he found himself lying flat on the sofa, with Yassen’s arm across his chest. “If you say so,” he said holding up a placating hand. “No judgement here.”

“I get laid more than you.”

Not particularly difficult Alex had to admit. “Yeah well, I’ve been busy,” he said, trying to sit up. Busy saving the world. Not that anyone had thanked him for it. He’d have been better off trying to get laid. The world might have ended a few years earlier, but at least he would have died happy. “Are you going to let me get up?” he asked at last. Yassen wasn’t visibly exerting force, but he didn’t seem able to move from the cushions.

Yassen let him struggle for a moment longer, then judging his point made, removed his arm.

“Thanks,” Alex said absently. He levered himself into a half-sitting position, his back resting against the sofa arm, frowning as he replayed the last part of the conversation. “Did SCORPIA teach you how to screw?”

“Yes,” Yassen said as though this was a perfectly normal state of affairs. “Of course.”

“Oh.” Obviously, he had missed that module during his brief time on Malagosto.

Yassen settled against his torso, resting his head on his propped arm as he looked down Alex’s torso. “You know,” he said, “you have-”

“A nice cock,” Alex intoned with a roll of his eyes, determined to brazen it out.

Yassen studied the topography of his body thoughtfully. “You have an enormous cock,” he said.

“Oh.” He resisted the impulse to glance downwards. “It’s not that big. It’s just how I’m sitting.”

Yassen’s eyebrows rose in polite disbelief. “Let me see,” he said and before Alex could stop him he had tugged his shorts down his thighs. His erection sprung free and slapped him with a faintly humorous thwack on the belly, where it lay quivering slightly from the impact.

Being generously endowed had not turned out to be everything popular culture promised. Women were more likely to react with trepidation than squeals of delight and men often became weirdly defensive, as though Alex’s additional inches somehow detracted from their own. Even Tom, who over the years had cultivated an air of resigned indifference to Alex’s various idiosyncrasies had grumbled, “‘ _kin_ hell, mate, that’s a bit excessive,” the last time they’d changed at the gym.

Yassen, however, did not appear threatened. Not at all. He gazed down Alex’s body approvingly, his expression growing ever more sleek and pleased. Eleven out of ten. Item arrived in excellent condition. Exceeded expectations. Would kidnap again. “You have a _very_ nice cock.”

Say what you like about Yassen Gregorovich, Alex thought with an edge of nervous laughter, you couldn’t accuse him of negging. He was concocting a _bon mot_ to that effect, when Yassen drove a snow-plough through that train of thought by adding, “Shall I suck it?”

“What?” he said wittily.

“Shall I suck your cock?”

Time became suddenly elastic. The chatter from the television receded into the background and Alex had time to notice a myriad of small details - the slightly rough texture of the upholstery beneath his bare legs, the heat of Yassen’s body pressed to his side, the colour of his parted lips - a surprisingly soft pale pink - while his thoughts formed with glacial slowness into the words, _You_ suck _me?_

Outside, the wind shifted direction and the sharp rattle of rain against the window broke the spell. Time snapped back to its normal tempo and the moment to stutter out an outraged refusal was somehow irretrievably in the past.

Yassen smiled taking his silence for acquiescence. and combed his fingers down the narrow line of hair which descended from beneath Alex’s T shirt to flare wider at his pelvis. The sensation, half-ticklish, half fraught with promise, made him twitch. He realised, a little abashed, that he was not groomed for company. There hadn’t been much opportunity for manscaping after K-Unit arrived on his doorstep to whisk him away to Minsk. Yassen, however, seemed to enjoy his men _au naturel._ Or at least it didn’t present him with any obvious deterrent.

“Hello,” he murmured as his hand reached the base of Alex’s cock.

He drew breath to inquire whether the art of love necessitated greeting the genitals in person, or whether it was simply best practice, then swallowed the words as Yassen’s cool hand slipped over his thigh to cradle his balls. Terror pinned him to the sofa, all too aware of the strength in Yassen’s fingers; the pain he could inflict. Fortunately, Yassen did not seem interested in that kind of game. He handled Alex as carefully as if he was made of glass, tickling behind his balls until they shifted and twitched in his palm, then weighing them in his hand as he watched Alex’s expression cycle between

“Hello,” he repeated, and released him to run a finger up the underside of his cock shaft. Just the edge of a forefinger brushing against the sensitive skin. His cock jumped rising from his stomach before subsiding again. “Yes, that’s right,” Yassen said, “let me see you.” He took hold of the shaft where it emerged from its bed of tight curls and, with forefinger and thumb, pressed lightly along its length, a centimetre at a time from root to head, as though assessing for his own satisfaction the softness of the skin, the thickness of its girth, the degree of its tumidity, while the flesh beneath his fingers first firmed, then fattened, then strained.

Alex endured the examination in silence, feeling curiously like a third wheel in the rapidly blossoming relationship between Yassen and his genitals. Somewhere in the back of his brain a muffled voice shouted about his principles, his uncle, the possibility, even likelihood, of an array of hidden cameras recording every detail. All valid points, Alex would admit, but somehow less pressing at present. It was difficult to believe someone was truly bad when they were expressing such a deep and apparently sincere appreciation for your anatomy.

The assessment took some time to complete to Yassen’s satisfaction and by the time he was done, the combination of encouraging murmurs and gentle touches had caused the head to overcome its initial shyness and emerge smooth and glossy, eager to be admired. And Yassen did admire it, with a low pleased note in the back of his throat. With excruciating gentleness he touched the tip with one finger and raised it to his mouth, eyelids lowering thoughtfully as he considered taste. His eyes met Alex’s and his pointed pink tongue flicked between his lips. Alex’s balls tightened in delicious anticipation and he took hold of the sofa cushions, determined to play things cool.

But, at the last moment his hopes were dashed. Rather than taking Alex into his mouth, Yassen turned his head and began to nibble hot soft kisses up the length of his cock, lavishing the shaft with affection, while the cruelly abandoned head throbbed and twitched forlornly at thin air. The examination was repeated with clinical precision, orally this time, as Yassen verified that he was indeed, very hot, very hard, very thick, reporting his findings in soft murmurs between kisses. The second time he reached the head, he did use his mouth, but just a fraction of it, the tip of his tongue tickling below the head. It was barely anything at all and it was almost too much to bear. Alex took hold firmer hold of the cushions and wondered if it was possible to explode from sexual frustration. The sly blue glances being aimed in his direction made it clear Yassen knew exactly what he was about. He hadn’t been lying. SCORPIA had not only shaped him into a formidable assassin. He was also a world-class prick tease.

“Not that this isn’t nice,” he managed, as Yassen’s fingers began slowly massaging behind his balls in apparent preparation for third round of reconnaissance, “but I thought you were going to suck me?”

“Suck you?” Yassen’s pale brows knit in puzzlement and he looked up, bringing his lips not nearer to Alex’s cock, but away, further away, in _completely the wrong direction._ “Did you want me to suck you?” He looked at Alex’s cockhead, considering its condition with a perplexed expression as though he had no idea what might be causing it to look so slick and red. “You never said.”

“I-” Alex glared at the top of his head, then thumped his head back against the sofa arm, rendered uncharacteristically speechless by the injustice of it all. He’d spent his sexual prime chasing round the world saving other people, a process which had involved far fewer romantic liaisons and far more psychological trauma than was popularly assumed. He’d all but given up hope of having any kind of normal relationship given that anyone he showed an interest in ended up being kidnapped, or working for a rival organisation, or both. And now, on the one occasion where he might actually have had a chance of getting his end away, he was about to be disqualified on a technicality. It was unbelievable. He was going to die from sexual frustration. He was actually going to _die_ and his only consolation was in the ensuing explosion he might somehow manage to take this smirking blond bastard out with him.

Sadly, Yassen appeared immune to the laser beams being aimed at him from the far end of the sofa. He abandoned Alex’s cock entirely to smooth an approving hand along his inner thigh, following its warmth to the crease at his pelvis. “You know,” he said running his fingers along the hidden furrow. “You have-”

“ _Not_ the time,” Alex gritted out, staring at the ceiling.

Yassen stroked his cock firmly, a quick back and forth which provided a crude but effective way of regaining his attention. He rested his chin on his hand and gazed up at Alex’s flushed, resentful face. “You want to be sucked,” he diagnosed in tones of enlightenment.

“Yes!” An explosion of breath. Oh God, so much, yes.

“Oh.” Yassen pursed his lips then shrugged, unsure what all the fuss was about. “I can do that.”

He leant forward to nuzzle against Alex’s cock. First bathing the head with his tongue, a soft silky wet stroking, followed finally - _finally!_ \- by a slow, warm-lipped kiss. Alex stayed very still, captivated by the sight, the touch, of that pink lipped mouth finally about to open for him. Perhaps he made a sound because Yassen looked up and smiled, his lips parting to reveal two rows of neat white teeth. All at once, Alex saw the ruthlessness in his gaze, the confident carriage of the apex predator moving in for the kill. _He’s going to bite!_ a voice shrieked deep in his mind. A primitive instinctive reflex. Cold dread flowed down his spine. He was paralysed, powerless to react as peril approached. His balls tightened, his stomach muscles clenched, and he came all over himself in an outpouring of ecstatic terror. Not a small amount either. Not the kind of overflow which could excused by youthful exuberance. Three hot jets shot into the air, one after the other, in a reasonable imitation of the Bellagio Fountains. They hung in front of his eyes for a split second, before landing in a hot rain across his stomach and thighs.

Yassen jerked sideways, narrowly avoiding the barrage. He watched in silence as his evening’s work came to a premature conclusion, then turned his gaze upon Alex, smile fading to be replaced by a distinctly chilly expression.

“Whoops?” he offered with a sheepish grin.

This time the irritable ‘tch’ was aimed directly at him. With an impatient gesture, Yassen picked up the discarded shorts and rubbed him down with brisk movements. “I am taking you to bed, before you ruin my sofa.”

 _Your_ sofa? Two thoughts went through Alex’s fuddled brain. The first was that this must be Yassen’s apartment, after all. The second was that he had not only been prepared to suck Alex off but, from his reaction, looking forward to it. By the time he caught up with the rest of the sentence, it was already too late. He had been pulled to his feet and hoisted over Yassen’s shoulder for the second time that day.

He considered putting up a fight, beating his fists against Yassen’s back and yelling his displeasure but refrained on the grounds that Yassen would probably enjoy it. “You’re just showing off now,” he grumbled instead, as they proceeded at a leisurely pace across the lounge, through a wooden floored entrance hall and into a darkened room.

“Shut up,” Yassen said and deposited him onto a bed. “And don’t touch anything,” he added before disappearing through a second doorway, leaving Alex bouncing and glaring at his retreating back, as far as it was possible to do both at the same time.

He waited until he was alone then looked about. So this was Yassen’s bedroom?. He had half been expecting rose petal strewn sheets and chocolate dipped strawberries, half a leather-lined sex dungeon. But the bedroom was just a bedroom, furnished comfortably but not extravagantly with an off-white chest of drawers and a wardrobe. And the bed was just a bed, albeit a large one with a well-sprung mattress and a padded headboard.

The most unnerving thing about this entire situation he thought as he flopped gloomily onto the duvet, was just how middle-of-the-road Yassen’s tastes were, outside of his choice of career. Not for him the marble and gold, hookers and blow lifestyle of your average career criminal. All Yassen Gregorovich wanted to do after hard week assassinating, was to order a takeaway, open a nice bottle of wine and spend some quality time with his favourite person in the whole wide world.

Which, unfortunately for Alex, happened to be him.


End file.
